Fix You
by The.Teal.Rose
Summary: A reflective one-shot piece from Frodo's point of view concerning Smeagol and the fate of the Ring. It is movie verse and takes place during the Two Towers. He contemplates over his own pity towards the creature and hopes for the salvation they both might eventually find. Will the Ring eternally bind them in darkness, or can they be redeemed by the end?


**A/N: **A reflective one-shot from Frodo's POV concerning Smeagol and the fate of the Ring. It is movie verse and takes place during the Two Towers after the trio's arrival at the Black Gate and before they are captured by Faramir. Please review and let me know what you think!

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><p><span><strong>Fix You<strong>

"_But if you never try you'll never know  
>Just what you're worth<br>__Lights will guide you home  
>And ignite your bones"<em>

_.+._

It was relatively quiet, with only the sounds of the wilderness to be heard within the still wasteland. However, it was also tense, as was each past night since venturing away from the rest of the fellowship. And the intensity increased with each step that led Frodo Baggins closer to the great mountain of fire; to the final destination of this bleak, but vital quest.

He just _had_ to get as far as he could, go as far as his strength would allow in order to play at least some part in the destruction of the cursed thing hanging upon his neck. It grew physically heavier and, along with that, Frodo could feel the increasing invasion upon his soul.

It was terrifying, the sheer amount of silent power this object held-its presence and how it could affect him. The evil of it was chilling and intent to destroy anything it encountered. It wanted to banish all light, its darkness so entirely consuming. He could feel its desires.

Perhaps, more than the exertion of his physical strength, he feared that the dwindling of his spiritual strength would come far sooner. It was taking him, he could feel its power slowly ebbing away at his will, and all he could do was face each onslaught as it came, focusing constantly on holding it at bay and never daring to allow his mind to stray too far.

It _had_ to be always the very center of his thoughts, even if every other thought and memory had begun fading into some indiscernible haze of his own awareness. If he faltered, even once, looked away and lost sight of it, it would take him. It would take advantage of his distraction, so he had to always combat it directly. He had to remain resilient, even as it fed off of his continued attention.

And it was only growing stronger. Each step that led him closer, weakened him while strengthening _it_. It was so difficult not to completely despair in this. He_ needed_ to hold on. As long as he could.

It was seizing him. Mind, body and soul. Possessing, corrupting, and weakening.

With a sleepless glance to Sam, he managed a small smile when he saw him slumbering peacefully, all the exhaustion apparent, but the set of his expression otherwise careless. He had given up everything to follow him, his loyalty surpassing all others. He absolutely wanted to keep this corruption away and apart from him. It was all he could offer in return for his faithfulness.

'_I'm sorry, Sam,' _he thought a bit morosely. _'But, I'm afraid you might have to continue carrying me in this way until we arrive at last to the end of all this.' _

He'd have to rely on his faithful friend to lend the physical support he could no longer offer himself, as all of his efforts would now be directed inward. They _had _to be.

His gaze shifted and towards the figure looming by the river's edge. The creature simply crouched there, stilled and luminescent, ghostly even, and Frodo was struck with a strange and stirring understanding. This creature was, in a sense, a reflection of who he, himself, was becoming.

Sam had opposed him a great many times already, not really understanding his resolution to offer mercy or aid to the fallen individual. But…it was just impossible for him to turn away, to turn his back and abandon him. He pitied Smeagol, pitied him above all others, but he also reached out because he _had_ to. He absolutely had to believe in his salvation.

It was vital to him that he believe.

After all, if Smeagol were truly a reflection of himself, he would want to maintain the hope that he, too, could be saved from this by the end. If, of course, he was not overtaken before then; if he did not ultimately lose the power of wills which corruption incarnate was waging over him.

He had to hope. Hope that both he and the creature before him could be saved.

The Ring could _not_ be eternally damaging. He feared that above most everything else. He'd been altered so greatly already, and there were still greater challenges to come. He had to maintain, at the very least, his will and very potent longing to save this beloved world and the people within it.

They were depending on him, and he had willingly taken the quest upon himself, willingly taken the burden. And so he had to see this through as far as he was able. He would give his life to just bring the Ring a fraction closer to its destruction.

Returning his attention to Smeagol, his eyes softened with pity and acknowledgement. What he saw there was a poor, lost soul who seemed so desperate to escape. A soul longing and seeking for not only the Ring, but something else-something _more_.

A return to the humanity he'd left behind? That part of himself which had been buried for so long?

This creature was in anguish, doomed to the forsaken existence he'd been so harshly dealt. And, because Frodo could understand, could see_ exactly _how he had become this way, he could not turn away. He couldn't just ignore it.

Besides…he'd seen a change already. Most notably on three different occasions. First, when he reached out and decided to trust this Smeagol character to lead them; to trust his oath upon the very thing that had been so completely binding him for the past 500 years. The object that now bound them both.

In swearing such a thing, Smeagol had relented to serving him as the master of what he considered most precious. He had traded his life and freedom in exchange for it. His willingness too, to serve, was curious to Frodo and struck him as a breakthrough.

If Smeagol could put this servitude above his desire for the Ring, even after all of this time, then it conveyed how he could still overcome the power it held over him. It gave Frodo a renewed sense of hope.

And he was as bound to the creature as he was to him. It was his duty to protect the one who called him master. His loyalty would not go unrewarded. He had been moved by Smeagol's pleas, his pitiable begging. He had felt nothing save for a sudden, almost innate prompting to bestow mercy upon him.

Through an understanding-mind to mind-bound together by the darkest of powers, Frodo Baggins had reached out to the creature. He had offered him light, a chance for redemption. A purpose.

The second occurrence was the moment in which he had first addressed him by name. Calling out to him as 'Smeagol', intentionally reminding him of his past, of that part of him which he strongly suspected had remained with him.

Frodo had noted an immediate haunting upon Smeagol's withered face in response, before he ever so slightly smiled and repeated the name for himself, it seeming to sound so foreign to him. The hobbit recognized this as a major improvement.

And he determined from that point to always address him in this way; to continuously remind him, call to his mind that past of his, in order to aid him against losing himself again. He recognized this creature's need to feel understood—to connect and to be reminded. He seemed to have been living such a lonely existence.

Frodo's heart had warmed, his expression intent and his will solidifying. What had begun as a risk to trust the creature, had now turned into a tentative sort of companionship. They were likeminded. He could connect with him in a unique way.

The final instance had been their arrival at the Black Gate. Smeagol had been true to his word, he had led he and Sam there as was asked. And, despite the obvious trauma induced over him—simply being near the massive entrance sending him into a quivering fit of sorts-he had remained beside them.

Then, as they were preparing to emerge from hiding in order to enter, Smeagol had grabbed hold and begged them not to do so. Was it only on behalf of the Ring, or was it also for his sake? He had said Sauron would take it, that the Ring was also wanting to go back, but he also warned him that he would be captured.

This worry and concern, combined with his past trustworthiness, moved Frodo into again taking a risk on him. He had said there was another way into Mordor, and in his eyes the hobbit could detect no falsehood, only a desperation to be of aid.

And so he agreed to follow him once more, agreed to place the success of the quest into Smeagol's hands. For, as it stood, he had no one else to believe in him, and that was something which Frodo recognized he needed. Furthermore, he discerned that the success of their task relied on any stroke of fortune they could acquire. Smeagol was offering that.

He could see the shift too, upon declaring his trust, upon his praising Smeagol's faithfulness. There was a sudden softness to the gaze that had once been so bent on vengeance and half-crazed determination to reclaim what had been stolen from him. Frodo had earned his trust in turn.

He could see how much it had meant to the creature, having someone place their faith in him. He reasoned that his basic needs were the same as any other. Why did he have to be treated so differently? The way he could be saved was through simple, decent treatment. The same basic rights allotted to any other soul.

"_Good Smeagol, always helps!"_ He had said before releasing his hold, eager to fulfill the request of his master. It seemed he was now even reminding himself of who he was.

He had been offered something of far greater value than that of the Ring's possession.

First, he had been granted mercy, then he had been reminded of who he once was, before finally having trust placed upon him.

Would it be enough?

Frodo had yet to discover the answer to that, but he smiled somewhat fondly at the poor creature. He would hope in him. He would not turn away. Every soul meant something, each soul was worth saving. No one was ever completely lost, were they?

He had seen traces of the once exuberant being Smeagol had been, all that enthusiasm and eagerness. _"He _can_ come back_."

Gandalf was right. Smeagol still had a part to play here, and the hobbit hoped that his role would be that of goodness and continued devotion. From the success of his previous encounters with Smeagol, he was even more assured of this eventual outcome.

But, as always, there was lingering doubt.

'_Once it takes hold of us, it…never lets go.'_

He had not wanted to hear those despairing words, as they had at once struck him with a fear and uncertainty as to his own fate. They had struck him deep. But Frodo was determined not to believe them. Once the Ring was at last destroyed…both he _and_ Smeagol would be saved. They would find freedom and they would find healing.

'_And that's if, of course, we do actually make it that far,' _Frodo reminded himself. But, he was determined not to think on it that way. He would never succeed if he doomed himself to fail.

He would make it. He would at least make it to the fiery chasm and he would at least cast the evil away eternally.

And, also…

'_I will try…'_ his eyes fixed and focused on Smeagol, _'to fix you.' _His finger instinctively lifted to the Ring hanging about his neck._ 'I will destroy it for _both _our sakes.'_


End file.
